Grudgebearer (12 page)

Do you want to kill all of the Eldrennai, Vander?

Silence stretched out, speaking ever louder as it dragged on.

Tell the Overwatches at South Number Nine to bring me the Foresworn. I have questions for him when we return.

Yes, Kholster
, Vander acknowledged.

*

Four days later, Kholster regretted his request to see the Foresworn, and he regretted going alone. He could have changed his mind, of course, and decided not the see the former Aern. He could have summoned Vander or Rae'en or any Aern to join him. But now that he'd thought of it, talking to the Foresworn seemed like a thing he should have done a long time ago, and doing it in front of other Aern seemed somehow cruel. He stopped in the snow and frowned before moving on.

The snow-decked peaks of the Duodenary Mountains, so-called because the Dwarves had divided them into twelve distinct zones, loomed large above as Kholster trod the Dwarf-and-Aern–wrought steps carved into the side of the Ninth. Small bone-steel tokens worked into the corner of each step kept him on the path even as he focused his sight back and forth between views of the construction in the Royal Museum of the Oathbreakers, where Bloodmane watched impassively, and the restoration of Fort Sunder, as the warsuits, under Scout's direction, began to organize the bones of the departed.

Minuscule segments of bone-steel beneath certain steps provided additional location information: a cluster of three rows of three told Kholster he was still on the Ninth Miner, wedges above and below the cluster told him he neared the boundary of the north-south bypass where he was to meet the Foresworn.

Deciding to give the Foresworn his full attention, Kholster opened his eyes. From his vantage point, Kholster could just make out the stone features of Jun, the builder and god of the Dwarves, worked into an adjacent mountain face. Coal, to his knowledge the last of the great dragons, sunned himself on a nearby peak, the sight bringing a smile to Kholster's lips. The dragon was getting old and sore; it was good to see him out and about instead of soaking himself in the lava flows deep beneath the mountains.

Smoke rose in a winding plume above the watchtower between the north-south division where he'd instructed the Foresworn to meet him. The fully stoked fire blazed brightly, but the Foresworn himself did not appear to have made it. An armor-clad Dwarf waved at Kholster, pointing farther downslope.

There he was. Lost?

Hurrying to the watchtower to wait, Kholster was greeted by the watchmaster.

“Watchmaster Binnolbloh, Kholster Kholster.”

“Just the one Kholster is fine, Watchmaster. It was my name before it was a title or rank.” Long vowels, Kholster noted, fondly reminded of the trace of an accent Helg had picked up from her time in North Number Two. Her “sir” rhymed with “far” or “star” rather than “fir” or “stir.”

“Of course, sir.” The Dwarf's stomach rumbled with the sound of stone on stone, a clear sign of nervousness. Had this Dwarf never met an Aern?

“Is there a problem?”

“Oh.” The Dwarf stomped his feet, “Coal, sir. The sight o' im scrambles mah bedrock.”

Not everything is about you
, Kholster reminded himself.

“It that a oneward accent?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“My Dwarven wife, Helg, picked up a touch of that when she apprenticed to Planner Yommorna.”

“My ma studied under her, as well,” the Dwarf said, perking up. “Of course, she was born in East Number Two and my dad was from Prime itself.”

Kholster nodded appreciatively. He'd been to Prime and, other than being the first city the Dwarves had built when they resettled to the Duodenary Mountains, Kholster hadn't thought much of it, but the Dwarves were quite fond of the place and being from there seemed to carry with it a certain social advantage.

“Your outcast is down there,” the watchmaster said to fill the silence. “I don't think he can make it up the steps.”

Kholster leaned over the battlement and studied the Foresworn from a distance. Clad in leather breastplate, long coat, trousers, and buskins, the Foresworn looked like an oversized babe dressed for battle. No trace of metal adorned him. His hair, bleached to a shock white to announce his status, grew long if not unkempt. What struck Kholster most, though, were the eyes, which he could just barely make out from his vantage point above. They had whites like a human's in place of an Aern's black sclera.

“Kholster,” the Foresworn called loudly. Waving a gloved hand high. “I'm here.”

“I see you, Parl.” Kholster felt the subtle pull of each bone-steel pellet in the steps, and beyond those, he sensed his Overwatches, and if he concentrated he could find all the others and their bonded weapons. From the Foresworn, he felt a push . . . a subtle repellent force.

The Foresworn perked up like a dog at the sound of his own name, grinning ear to ear like some lovestruck fool to hear it cross the lips of his former kholster.

Vander?
Kholster thought.
Are you getting this?

We can't become that
, Vander thought to him.

Maybe it wouldn't be horrific if we were all outcast together?

There were once two Foresworn, Kholster. They repelled each other, too.

The Dwarves made a big deal over that, as I recall. Something about polarity?

Yes, but then one of them said something about domains and they all cheered and patted him on the back. No idea what they were talking about, but . . . Does he look sick to you? Can you picture Rae'en like that?

Kholster didn't answer.

“Parl,” he said under his breath, “Fifty-Third of One Hundred. You look like . . .” What did he look like? Death, if Kholster had to put a word on it. He was too pale, and his mouth seemed drawn in. And those eyes. Those eyes made Kholster shudder. No Aern should have eyes like eggshells. He pictured Rae'en with those eyes and the image made him sick.

Everything goes well with the Elevens
, Vander pushed on.
Rae'en and her Overwatches are drilling with Quana's squad. Nothing to report.

I wonder if I should have brought Rae'en. Let her see him.

She can be there in little more than a candlemark.

Kholster frowned. Perhaps it would not be cruel, but just, to have witnesses here.
Bring yourself and the Foresworn's Incarna, as well as Rae'en and her Overwatches. I want Rae'en to kholster this decision.

Decision?

You know what needs doing, Vander. I know what needs doing. Rae'en is Freeborn . . . I choose to follow her words on this matter. She, also, must know what needs doing.

We're on our way
, Vander thought.

Good. Let me see what's taking him so long.

Kholster watched as the Foresworn picked his way along the edge of the steps, being careful not to place his feet too close to the edge. In some spots he raced along the snow-covered rock, but in others, he scaled the rock face, scrambling for purchase.

“Something wrong with the stairs?” Kholster called.

“They're seeded with bone metal,” Parl answered. His voice was different, too. Kholster couldn't quite place why. As Parl reached a flattish plane, he attempted to set foot on the steps, but his foot hovered above the step in a wobbling way as if he could not quite manage to force his foot down.

“I'll come down,” Kholster said with a curse. “I should have realized.”

“Please don't, Kholster,” Parl choked the words out. Was he crying? “I can do this. Please.”

“In your own time.” Kholster nodded.
Would you rather I look away?
Kholster wanted to ask that last question but didn't.

“What did he do?” whispered the Dwarf Kholster had forgotten.

“There are many oaths I advise Aern against making.” Kholster grimaced between words as Parl lost his footing and fell across the steps, sliding across the tops like oil on water until he managed to grab a stone to stop his slide. “Promises of eternal anything or unequivocal success. I have experience with oaths. I tell them take an oath that you will make a reasonable effort, instead. Oaths should hinge on effort, not outcome.” Let all other Aern take care; Kholster's own oaths bore enough weight for his people to carry.

“And the oath he took?” The Dwarf leaned toward Kholster with eager eyes.

Below them, Parl negotiated the troublesome patch where he'd fallen. The wide steps lay close to the edge as the path turned, the rock face too steep to climb without tools. Parl. Kholster was finding it hard to think of Parl as the Foresworn while watching the familiar look of determination on his face. Parl balanced on the edge, using the force of the bone-steel's push to help steady himself on the narrow margin.

“He swore an oath to convince another Aern to spare the life of his son's new bride.”

“And the other wouldn't hear of it, even to spare the Grudger being Foresworn?” the Dwarf asked, shock clear in his voice.

“Midio of North Number Three.” Kholster closed his eyes as he spoke. “Do you know the name?”

“Sounds familiar. Something to do with the last elections?”

“She was a beautiful Dwarf.” Kholster could still see her in his mind's eye. “Jun's touch was clear on that one. Hair like the deepest depths, eyes the color of lava flow. Toymakers could have copied her in miniature and sold the likenesses to human children. She did not lack for,” Kholster searched for a Dwarven euphemism and found it, “mineral deposits, either.”

“I can picture her,” the Dwarf agreed.

“She had taken a different name for her work in Polimbol's bid for foreman, when he opposed Glinfolgo.”

“I'm not ashamed to admit that I backed Polimbol—”

Kholster's eyes flashed open, irises expanding, amber aching to fill the black.

“—until I found out about the weak metal in his character,” the Dwarf finished quickly. “Girders built with flaws that deep have to be melted down and forged again. I even heard tell he had that mistress of his rig a . . . collapse.”

“It is not common knowledge.” Kholster felt the calm creep back in. “But she did indeed. The tunnel's collapse was meant to kill Glinfolgo, to default the election back to Polimbol . . . but it killed Glinfolgo's sister instead, and almost killed her daughter, too. There was a public trial.

“Parl's son, his Incarna, swore he thought his wife was innocent. Thought,” Kholster searched the Dwarf's eyes for understanding. “Do you see the difference? Taking an oath is proof one is telling the truth. It's dangerous, but a powerful tool—particularly among older Aern who remember being oathslaves to the . . . Oathbreakers. To lie with an oath would make an Aern instantly Foresworn.”

“Parl's son begged for his father's intercession?”

“And Parl swore not only effort but success . . .”

Below, Parl managed his balancing act and made it through to the wider portion of the path. The slope was steeper, but the distance between step edge and drop-off more than enough to make the climb possible.

“No gold, I take it?” the Dwarf asked.

“No gold,” Kholster repeated. “The worst sort of mining. It would have been hard to convince any Aern to spare the woman, but the Aern he needed to convince was me . . .”

Parl moved more quickly than before, traveling on all fours. He stumbled once, twice, and then he was at the lower edge of the watchtower's steps.

“Glinfolgo's sister, killed in the collapse, was my wife, Helg. I swore to find and kill at least as many of those responsible for Helg's death as I, while remaining sane and reasonable, could before my Overwatches cried out for me to stop.”

“As oaths go,” Parl panted, “it was well-thought out, with good limitations, and an excellent safety valve to allow the oath to be abandoned honorably.”

“Unusual for my oaths.” Kholster walked down the stair to meet him. “Particularly when I've just lost a wife.”
And I almost lost Rae'en, too.

“My own oath was regrettably less well-managed. ‘I will save her life, son,' I said.” Up this close, Kholster identified the source of the strangeness about Parl's voice . . . there was something wrong with his mouth. His teeth were gone. Pale gray gums. No teeth. Had they fallen out? Had he sold them? Had they . . . rotted? “I will make Kholster spare her. You will grow old together. I swear it. He will listen to reason. If only I had started with ‘If she is truly innocent' . . .”

“If only you hadn't said the ‘grow old together' part, I could have spared her for a day and spared you in the bargain.”

“It was a stupid oath.”

“I've made my share of them and yours beside, but . . .”

“His boy's wife, Midio,” the Dwarf put in. “She was Polimbol's murderous mistress?”

Kholster and Parl nodded.